


Gods Grant Me the Serenity

by sarahcakes613



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, Modern Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7125169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/pseuds/sarahcakes613
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dual-POV exploration of Sandor's journey from rock bottom to sobriety. Inspired by the very real Twelve Steps of AA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The seeds of this story came to me in February 2016 while I was sitting in a room full of alcoholics, watching a very beloved family member celebrate 31 years of sobriety. I am what is known in the community as a "twelve-step baby", that is, I grew up in it. If you have any questions about terminology or anything else, just leave a comment and I will explain as needed!

Step One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.

  


October 17th

“My name is Barristan, and I am a grateful alcoholic.”

Sandor shifts in his seat as everyone voices their welcomes to the meeting’s speaker. He hadn’t really known what to expect when he walked into the basement of the sept and took a seat at the back of the room. He definitely hadn’t expected to see his old boss leading the meeting. He knows Selmy was in recovery, has seen the medallions on his key ring, but shit, of all the basements in all the septs.

Sandor lets Selmy’s voice wash over him as he looks around the room. He knows that drinking can affect anyone, he’s known men and women of all classes who liked their wine a little too much. Still, he has assumed it would be mostly middle-aged men like himself, maybe a few younger guys. Instead, the room is split fairly evenly in gender and he is pretty sure that green-haired chick in the corner can’t be more than 18 or 19.

“-gonna ask Beric to come up and do the medallions.” Sandor tunes back in to Selmy in time to hear him introduce somebody else to the front of the room. He looks to be about Sandor’s age, with sandy hair and a patch over his left eye.

“Hi all, I am just an alcoholic named Beric.”

Again, everyone around Sandor greets him in unison.

“These chips serve as a physical reminder of our dedication to sobriety, and I’ll start with the big one, the blue one-year medallion. Anyone here celebrating one year today?”

No one moves, so Beric keeps going.

“Alright, nine months. Anyone got nine months?”

Again, no one moves. Tough crowd, Sandor thinks.

“The yellow chip, six months. I must have three of these at home,” Beric says. “Anyone have six months?”

A smattering of applause passes around the room as a young woman makes her way to Beric to pick up a yellow chip. She is lean, with short black hair. Beric wraps her in a hug before giving her the chip.

“What about three months – anyone have three months to trade for a red chip?”

No one moves, but Sandor hears a few voices murmur “keep coming back”.

“I know I’ll be taking home one of these today,” Beric continues.

“The shiny gold chip, two months, worth more than a gold dragon. Anyone else want one?”

This time a few more voices join in the refrain of “keep coming back”.

“Okay, we’re down to one month. Silver chip for thirty days, anyone?”

A thin man in his fifties stands up and stalks to the front of the room. Beric seems to think better of a hug and gives the man a firm handshake before handing him the chip, which the man takes solemnly.

Beric looks around the room. “This chip here, this little silver chip,” he holds it up for everyone to see. “This chip is the most important one you can have. They call this the desire chip. It doesn’t require a year, a month, it doesn’t even require a day of sobriety. All it requires is the desire to quit drinking. Anyone want a desire chip?”

Here goes nothing, Sandor thinks. He stands up before his brain can give him a reason not to. He dimly hears the applause as he walks up to Beric and takes the silver chip from him. Beric grins up at him and pulls him in for a rib-crushing hug before Sandor can step away. Over Beric’s shoulder, Sandor sees Barristan smiling.

“What’s your name, brother?” Beric whispers in his ear. “Sandor.” Sandor growls back under his breath.

“Everyone, this is Sandor and today Sandor is taking that first step!” The applause continues until Sandor gets back to his seat. He feels someone behind him pat him on the shoulder, and the woman on his left side gives him a wide smile, eyes gliding past his scars to look him in the eyes. He isn’t used to people looking him in the eye, but this woman looks like she’d seen some shit of her own, like maybe she really doesn’t care that half his face is a fucked up mess of skin grafts. He reminds himself that they are all here for the same reason, no one here is any better than he is. He isn’t sure what the feeling fluttering in his ribs is, but he thinks it might be hope.

* * *

“Hello, and welcome to this meeting of Al-Anon. My name is Dany, and I’m here because someone I love is an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Dany.” Everyone responds. Sansa stays quiet, chewing the inside of her cheek as she listens to Dany read the Twelve Steps of Al-Anon.

“We’re all here for the same reason,” Dany continues. “Someone we love is an alcoholic. We are here because we have acknowledged that we are powerless over alcohol and it is NOT. OUR. FAULT.” Her brows draw together as she looks around the room.

Sansa can feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She knows that Sandor’s drinking is not something she can control; she’s always known that rationally. Hearing a stranger say the words aloud though, it somehow makes everything feel more real, more believable.

“Psst, here.” Sansa turns to look at the man sitting next to her. He is holding out a packet of tissues. “Thanks.” she whispers, taking one and dabbing at her eyes. They sit in silence while Dany tells her story, talks about the brother who has been drinking since they were teens, til he’d wound up hospitalised after a three day Goldschläger binge. They no longer speak to each other, but she still struggles with the overwhelming feelings of guilt that she can’t help him with his addiction. As she speaks, Sansa finds herself nodding and agreeing with a number of Dany’s statements.

After Dany finishes speaking, she opens the floor to others who want to share. The man next to Sansa raises his hand. “My name is Renly, and I’m here because someone I love is an alcoholic.” This time Sansa joins in as everyone greets him. Like Dany, Renly is there because of his brother. Sansa has expected everyone to be like her, there because of their partner, but as more people speak, she realises that there are partners, siblings, children, parents, and one boy who looks to be about sixteen, who speaks softly and says he is there because he is worried about his uncle.

At the end of the meeting, Dany approaches Sansa. “Hi, Sansa?” Dany gently places a hand on Sansa’s arm. “I know this can be a lot to take in, but I’d like to offer my services as your sponsor.”

Sansa smiles at her. “I’d love that, thank you. You’re right, it’s quite overwhelming.”

Dany beams back at her. “Do you have somewhere to be? We can get a cup of coffee at the café around the corner, if you want?”

Sansa looks down at her watch. She knows Sandor’s meeting is scheduled for another half hour. He has told her not to wait for him, that he would see her at home, and she knows she doesn’t need to wait for him, but she is feeling torn. Dany senses her discomfort, and hastens to add, “The café really is quite nearby, a lot of the folk from the Rooms go there after their meetings, if you have someone to meet?” Sansa nods in agreement, sending Sandor a quick text to let him know, and then lets Dany lead her out of the sept and into the sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's week goes from bad to worse, and Sansa has had enough.

Step Two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity

 

October 12

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He’d been fired from another shit job, handed his last days pay and not-so-gently nudged out the door. He thought he’d just pop into Edd’s for a bit of liquid courage, one, maybe two pints, and then go home to face Sansa and the defeated look she’s been wearing more and more lately. If he’s being honest with himself, it never went like that. Sandor didn’t like being honest with himself. When he was honest with himself, he knew what a complete fuckup he’d become and that made him want to drink even more.

This one wasn’t even his fault, he thinks bitterly. Fuck, none of this was. Sometimes a man just has to do something, right? Anyone would have done the same in his shoes. There he’d been, keeping his head down and doing his job, how the fuck was he supposed to know the woman he’d clotheslined was in point of fact his boss’s new lay? She’d practically run at him to get into the club, he’d thought she was some rabid ex-employee looking to start trouble.

And now here he is, slumped over a bar stool and barely awake, pissed both off and to the gills, and through his bleary half-shut eyes he can see Edd curled over a phone, throwing worried glances his way. The bastard is ratting him out, he could tell. Edd was usually good for a couch or bathtub to sleep in, but he’s been getting progressively less sympathetic as the weather turned and Sandor’s luck kept running out. He doesn’t know which god looked after drunkards, but he is hoping he or she is keeping an eye on him right now and letting Edd get a busy number. Sansa is never angry anymore. He can handle angry. She is just disappointed, and that burns him up inside more than if she would yell or rag or throw crockery at his head.

Edd lopes over to him, brow creased. “Sandor, man, uh…Sansa won’t come get you.”

“Fuck you, Edd” Sandor slurs. “I didn’ ask you t’ call’r.”

Edd heaves a sigh and leans down, elbows on the bar. “Look mate, you know I’d offer you my couch if I could, but the new missus…she don’t like me doing that.”

Sandor vaguely recalls Edd going away on one of those cheesy singles tourist getaways and coming back with an exotic Lorathi beauty, Shaya or some shit. He grunts at Edd, and taps the bar, indicating he wants another drink. Edd shakes his head. “I’m not doing it, mate. You’re cut off.”

Sandor stands, weaving slightly, and looms over the bar. “Edd, gimme a fucking drink.”

Edd stands his ground, though Sandor can see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Sansa asked me not to, and I’m more afraid of her than you, mate.”

Sandor slumps back onto his stool. “She say why she wouldn’t come?” he mumbles, eyes on the bartop, unwilling to let Edd see his expression.

“She just said she’d had enough. She said to tell you she wouldn’t lock the door if you make it home, she just wasn’t going to come out and get you. Is there anyone else I can call?”

Sandor fumbles with his phone, thumbing through his contacts to see if there is anyone he can rely on for a ride at one in the morning. He doesn’t have a lot of friends, mostly drinking buddies, and Sansa’s friends won’t give him the time of day if she isn’t there. He finally settles on Arya, Sansa’s little sister. She hates him, but she might at least be willing to send her cabbie boyfriend his way. He shoves his phone at Edd, suddenly ashamed and unwilling to make the call himself.

Twenty minutes later, Gendry’s cab pulls up outside the bar and sits there, cab-light flickering off and on. Sandor is weaving his way out of the bar when he hears Edd murmuring behind him. “Don’t come back, Sandor. Enough’s enough.”

* * *

 

Sansa had really, truly thought this time would be different.  The curse of the optimist, her mother called it. Sandor had gotten a gig as doorman at a hot new club, and he wasn’t drinking every day like he did when he was unemployed. It was just weekends, and maybe sometimes during the week if his team lost, and well of course she knew he liked to have a beer when he barbecued, and the weather had been so nice lately, so there’d been a lot of barbecues.

She sighs to herself, looking at the clock on the stove for what seems like the ninetieth time. It hasn’t moved backwards. It is still nearing one am, Sandor still isn’t home, he’s still forgotten her big plans to cook up that whole char that Jon had sent them from Beyond the Wall. The char sits on the table now, staring at her with it’s dead fish eyes. Under the table, Lady stares at her as well, remaining hopeful that perhaps the char would fall and she can have a second supper. Sansa is wound up so tight that when her phone rings, she nearly drops it in the pot of steamed vegetables before answering it with a taut “hello?”

It is Edd, owner of the Blackcastle Pub where Sandor likes to stop in sometimes. She can barely hear his whispering voice as it tells her that Sandor is there, and he is drunk. Will she come get him? She won’t. Not again. Her voice trembles at first, but strengthens as she looks down at Lady, one hand in her dog’s fur as if to absorb some of her dogged stoicism. “I won’t do it, Edd. Tell him I won’t lock the door if he wants to come home, but I can’t come get him. Not again. Not ever again.” Edd sighs heavily, but Sansa doesn’t especially care about what the bartender thinks. She doesn’t blame him, not really, but in that moment she is not sympathetic. He doesn’t have to keep taking Sandor’s money and giving him alcohol in return, she thinks bitterly.

Half an hour later, she sees the telltale lights of a car turning into their gravel driveway. She walks over to the window, and peering through the curtains, spots Gendry behind the wheel of his taxi. She purses her lips, of course he’d have called Arya. She’s never understood the relationship her sister and Sandor have, it seems to be built mostly on a mutual dislike and yet they have their own in-jokes and stories that she has never been a part of.

She can’t watch Sandor leaning down onto Gendry’s shoulder, can’t bear to see him brought down to a clumsy child-like state, and so she turns away from the window and makes her way to the bedroom. She’s left the door to the guest room wide open, and locked the bedroom door behind her. They’ll talk tomorrow, she promises herself.

* * *

 

The ten-minute drive from the bar to his house has been quiet. Gendry stares straight ahead the entire drive, mouth set in a straight line, lips pressed together like he is physically holding himself back from letting any words come out. He helps Sandor stumble to the door, still quiet. Sandor turns to sneer a thanks at Gendry, and is surprised to find Gendry still standing right behind him, reddened skin glowing under the street lamps. Gendry is rubbing the back of his neck, other hand shoved in his pocket and jingling his keys, steeling himself to say something.

“If’n you have something’ to say boy, say it.” Sandor growls.

Gendry flushes deeper but draws himself up and looks straight into Sandor’s eyes.

“You don’t have to be like this. You’re a good person. Sansa’s a good person. You both deserve better, and you have the power to change, man. Just…there’s other options.” Gendry pulls a crumpled pamphlet out of his pocket and shoves it at Sandor. Sandor looks down at the creased bit of paper. Alcoholics Anonymous? Is Gendry fucking kidding? He looks at Gendry, speechless. Gendry rubs the back of his neck again.

“It just really helped someone I know, okay? It’s not a big deal, lots of people have problems.”

Sandor remains speechless. Sandor isn’t a wordy man, but finding himself without even the ability to let out a single “fuck” is a new experience. His job done, Gendry jogs back to his car and drives off, leaving Sandor standing alone and more confused than he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor hits rock bottom and Sansa dares to hope.

Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

 

October 16

Relegated to the guest room, Sandor has hardly seen or spoken to Sansa since he’d shuffled into the kitchen the morning after his night at Edd’s, and he’d sat there stone-faced while Sansa listed all the reasons she couldn’t continue on like this, ticking them off like ingredients in a recipe. He’d had nothing to say, his mind still turning over that pamphlet he’d thrown on top of the bedside table before finally falling asleep near 2am, still dressed and too sober for his own liking.

Sandor has tried, he really has. He’s poured every bottle of beer down the sink, stood there with his head pounding as his liquid courage, his liquid happiness, all of his false emotion trickled down the drain. He hasn’t had a drink in four days, and he has plans for tonight. He is cooking dinner for Sansa, and he is going to tell her that he’s made an appointment with his former therapist. She’ll invite him back into their bedroom, and things will be better.

The chicken is roasting beautifully, and Sandor has been periodically basting it with his usual white wine sauce. It’s okay, he has reasoned with himself, cooking kills all the alcohol. He hasn’t used the whole bottle, and he looks at it sitting there on the counter. It looks back at him. It’s just wine, he thinks. Hardly any alcohol content. It’s _white_ ; for Strangerssake, barely really booze at all. He is moving now, body acting without his brain, and there is wine down his throat and it is sweet and cold and he is swallowing and it’s like he is just out of the desert and hasn’t seen water for a week. The bottle is empty, and he is still thirsty. Sandor moves to the dining room, planning to set the table up with their best china and some of those electric tea-lights Sansa loves. Instead, he is again moving without thinking, and he is in front of the liquor cabinet. There is a jug of mead leftover from Sevenmas, and like the wine, Sandor hardly considers it to even be really booze, the alcohol content is so low. He tugs the cork out with his teeth and takes a swig. It is light and crisp and it oozes down his throat, warming him from the inside. He takes another swig, savouring the smooth sweet liquid, and then he is upending the jug and drinking it until there is nothing left.

* * *

 

Sansa feels cautiously optimistic as she leaves work. Sandor hasn’t had a drink in four days, and he’s even poured all of his beer out. She’d asked him if he’d like to pour the liquor out as well, wanting to be supportive, but he’d reassured her that this was enough. After all, it wasn’t like she also had to stop drinking, he told her. Sandor has sent her a text at work today, their first real communication since she’d stood in the kitchen patiently explaining why things needed to change, while he’d sat there like a stone man, his face blank and gaze avoiding hers.

The text reads “I have good news. Making your fave roast, don’t be late.” She has had an unexplainable knot in her stomach most of the day as she has tried to fathom out what his good news might be. A new job, she hopes. Something that keeps him busy, something where he can work with his hands again. The weather is still holding on, summer refusing to let go, and he could still pick up some construction work if he tried. She has thought about asking her brother’s girlfriend if her father would give him any work, but he is a hard man, a teetotaler, and the chances of his giving Sandor Clegane a second chance are about the same as Sansa giving birth to a squid. Not fecking likely, she hears her great-uncles voice chime in her head.

Sansa stops outside _Jonquil & Jute_, her favourite flower shop, and picks up a bouquet of azaleas and daffodils. She leans in to inhale deeply, relishing in the scent of new beginnings. The scent stays with her as she walks the two miles from the shopping district to home. It isn’t until she has turned onto her street that the scent is pushed away by the acrid smell of smoke and burnt meat. Eyes stinging and blurred, she can see that it is her own house from which the smoke is emanating, and she sprints the last hundred feet as visions of Sandor on fire sear themselves into her brain. She runs up the stairs and throws open the door, relieved to find the doorknob is cool to the touch. The smoke alarm is blaring and she spots Lady cowering in her crate, head tucked under her paws. The smoke is coming from the kitchen and she feels almost relieved when she opens to the oven door sees that nothing is on fire, but that the smell is coming from Sandor’s chicken, now a burnt shriveled up carcass in the roasting pan. She is standing under the smoke alarm frantically waving a teatowel when she hears a low groan coming from the dining room.

She moves towards the sound, feet lifting slowly, like they know before she does what she will find. Sandor is slumped on the floor, half his body under the table. He is surrounded by empty bottles. Sansa’s heart sinks as she takes in the scene. The knot in her stomach has risen into her throat and she is choking on it as her brain tries to comprehend what it is seeing. There are no words, she cannot speak, all she can do is turn around because she can not look at him like this, she will not look at him like this.

“M’sorry,” she hears him slur, “It was jus’ some wine, ‘n then…m’sorry Sansa.” He is crying now, keening like Lady during a thunderstorm, and she can hear his body shift as he tries to get out from under the table. She feels something brush against her, and Sandor is grasping at her ankle now.

“Don’ leave me, Sansa. Please. Please don’ leave me. I’ll go ‘n see the doctor. I’ll get better, I promise. Please.” His chest is heaving with sobs and her chest is heaving with anger as she stands staring down at him. I am porcelain, she thinks to herself. I am ivory, I am steel. The mantra she had learnt in her self-defence class is supposed to remind her of the strength she is capable of, but all she feels capable of now is giving up and giving in.

She nudges Sandor’s hand loose and steps away from him, making her way to the guest room. She will pack him a bag, she thinks. She’s never kicked anyone out before, but there has to be a first time. She will show him how serious this is. When Sansa reaches for the lamp on the bedside table, her hand brushes the paper left there. She picks it up, curious. It is red and glossy, and printed at the top in all capital letters it says “IS A.A. FOR YOU?” There are twelve questions inside the pamphlet, and as Sansa reads each one, she mentally ticks the box for Sandor. Even being outside his head, she is able to answer nine of the twelve questions in the affirmative. She turns the pamphlet over and sees a handwritten address and meeting times listed. The next meeting is tomorrow. Sansa stands there a moment, then makes up her mind.

* * *

 

Sandor is still on the floor when Sansa walks back into the room. She kneels next to him and is fanning him with something. The cool air is surprisingly sobering, and he opens one eye to see her holding the pamphlet Gendry had shoved in his hands. He groans when he sees it, and shuts his eye again, crossing one arm over to cover his face.

“Sandor,” she begins gently, though he hears an underlying current of steel in her tone. “It’s worth a try. Look at yourself. This can’t go on. _We_ can’t go on.”

He runs through his excuses in his head. He wants to say them aloud, but he knows that giving voice to them will only emphasise how pitiful they are, how useless they are as reasons go. He does not believe in the gods, not really, and they talk about gods all the time. He can’t stop on his own so why should a bunch of other drunks be able to help him? And okay so maybe today wasn’t the best example, but he was usually able to control himself, to a degree.

“Sandor?” He hears her again, questioning, nudging him with her toe.

“Fuck, Sansa.” He hauls himself into a seated position, and looks at her. She is still kneeling next to him and the look of hope in her eyes is so new and unfamiliar as of late that even though he means to say “I won’t do it” and “Not a chance in the seven hells”, what comes out of his mouth is a small and broken “will you come with me?”

* * *

 

They have arrived nearly half an hour early. Sansa is not familiar with the address and was worried about getting lost. She had chattered mindlessly throughout breakfast, which for Sandor was two bites of dry toast and ten minutes of dry heaving before he’d given up and just had black coffee.

The sept looks like every other sept Sansa’s been in, seven statues and candles in front of each, pews lining the walls. She isn’t sure how these meetings go, if they will sit around in the sept itself or use one of the meeting rooms in the basement. They stand there silently for a while, and slowly the doors begin to open and shut more frequently as people begin to traipse in and make their way to the basement. As the door opens once more, she hears Sandor’s muttered “seven fucking hells” and she looks around to see his Mr. Selmy, his former employer. Sandor whips his head back to face the statues but it is too late, and Mr. Selmy makes his way over to Sansa and Sandor.

“Clegane.” He says, laying a hand on Sandor’s shoulder.

“Selmy.” Sandor replies, turning slightly so the hand falls away.

“Sansa,” Mr. Selmy puts his hand out to shake. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Sansa returns the handshake, smiling politely. She isn’t sure what to say, so she says nothing.

Mr. Selmy claps his hand on Sandor’s shoulder again, gripping it slightly this time. “I know why you’re here, and boy, am I glad to see you. Come with me, you’re going to learn to make coffee and set up chairs.”

Sandor looks at Sansa, and she can see there is a glimmer of fear in his eyes. She smiles at him and nods, urging him to go with the older man. They turn from her, head to the basement, and she is alone.

Sansa moves slowly over to the statues, stopping to light a candle in front of the Maiden, for herself, and the Mother, for her family. She isn’t sure who is in charge of problems like this, but she knows that what Sandor is doing takes courage, and so she lights a candle for the Warrior, and asks him to watch over Sandor now.

She is standing there, watching the flames flicker, when she feels a soft hand on her arm. She turns to see a woman her own age smiling gently at her. She has hair dyed in the pastel silver tones that have become popular since that silver-haired Qartheen girl had won Westeros’ Next Top Model.   “I’m sorry if I am disturbing you,” she lilts in a Braavosi accent. “Are you here for the meeting?”

Sansa shakes her head, not sure what to say. Is she allowed to say her boyfriend is an alcoholic? “No, I’m just…I’m here for a friend.”

The woman nods, and says “That is how many of us arrive here. We want to be here for our loved ones, do we not?” She gestures to the statues. “Our Higher Powers bring us here and the rest is up to us. I’m Dany.” She introduces herself to Sansa. “I lead the Al-Anon meetings here.”

“Sansa. I’m sorry, I’m not sure what Al-Anon is? Is that the same as…” she waves her hand at the door that leads to the basement, to indicate the meeting going on below.

Dany’s smile widens, and it is like every candle in the sept has been lit, she radiates so much warmth. “Al-Anon is a sister organisation,” she explains. “We’re here for the friends and families of alcoholics. We have a meeting about to start, if you’d like to sit in. No introductions required.”

Sansa is hesitant, but then she looks at the Warrior, and a spark of courage is lit inside her. She wants so much to be a part of Sandor’s experience, to know what he is going through so they can go through it together, and maybe this will help her do that. She smiles back at Dany, and gestures for her to lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In flower language, azaleas represent temperance, and daffodils represent inner reflection.
> 
> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Sandor and Sansa's first meetings.

Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

 

October 17

The hope Sandor let himself feel after taking his chip has vanished. In it’s place is fear and confusion. The longer Sandor sits in his first meeting, the more stories he hears, the more he is realising how monumental the task in front of him is. He doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking, he can’t fucking do this. As soon as the meeting is over, he will head for the door. He’ll go to Edd’s, he’ll have a drink, and he’ll figure out how to explain to Sansa that his fear is stronger than his love, his desire, every emotion he positively associates with her existence in his life.

Everyone is standing now; this is his chance. He hasn’t made it three steps towards the exit when he feels a firm grip on his shoulder. It’s Barristan, and his smile says “heya sport” while his eyes say “don’t even think about it”. He nudges Sandor into the forming circle of people and grabs one of Sandor’s hands. His other hand is gripped by the green-haired girl he’d noticed earlier. He looks down at her, and she flashes him a grin. He is startled by the wide hole between her incisor and premolar, and she cheekily sticks her tongue into the gap when she notices him looking at it. Still grinning at him, she begins to recite the words along with everyone else. Sandor remains silent, not wholly familiar with The Father’s Prayer that they are chanting.

When the prayer is finished, Barristan’s hand shifts back up to grip Sandor’s shoulder, keeping him in place. Barristan is clearly well-known here, he is shaking hands and he seems to know everyone’s name. The woman who’d smiled at him when he picked up his chip hugs Barristan on her way out and thanks him for some unspoken advice he’d given her at the last meeting. She nods to Sandor and he nods back. As the room empties, Barristan turns to Sandor, and this time his smile reaches his eyes.

“I have to say boy, I never thought I’d see you here.”

Sandor shrugs, unsure how to respond. Barristan seems to understand, though.

“Sansa give you an ultimatum?”

Sandor looks at Barristan in surprise. He smiles knowingly in response. “I’ve been there, my boy. If Ashara hadn’t basically ordered me to check myself in to Evenfall Rehab, I’d have been dead a long time ago. That woman saved me.”

Sandor vaguely remembers Barristan’s wife from her visits to the auto shop. Ashara Dayne-Selmy would fly through the shop like a firecracker, dropping off forgotten lunches and freshly-baked custard tarts for the mechanics. Sandor can imagine a young Ashara, fiery-eyed, telling Selmy to shape up or ship out. The last time Sandor had seen Ashara, she was a shell of her former self, a series of mini-strokes having left her with a slurred speech and partial memory loss. After the last episode, Selmy had chosen to sell Selmy Autos to a conglomerate and take an early retirement to spend more time with her and their grandchildren. The new bosses hadn’t cared much for Sandor and so he was made redundant, one of the few situations in which his job loss really wasn’t his own fault, where he hadn’t somehow managed to sabotage himself out of a job.

Barristan and Sandor are both quiet for a moment, before Barristan speaks. “Sandor, I’ve been where you are. I’ve stood where you’re standing. You’ve got your first chip and now you have no idea in the seven hells what to do next.”

Sandor snorts, Selmy has the right of it. He isn’t finished speaking though, continuing, “I said I wouldn’t be here without Ashara, and that’s true, but the love of a good woman isn’t enough to heal you. Son, you need a sponsor to help you walk the steps, and I would be honoured to help you work through them.”

Sandor is dumbfounded. He’s always gotten along with Selmy, even taken Sansa to dinner at his house a few times when they still worked together. He’s been as open with Selmy as he has with anyone, but there are stories in his past, things he’s going to have to come to terms with for this to work, and he doesn’t know if Selmy’s the person to tell them to.

Barristan holds up his hand to silence Sandor, though Sandor hasn’t opened his mouth. “I can see your brain working, boy, and I’m not asking you to tell me every little thing you’ve ever done wrong in life.” Which is good, Sandor thinks wryly, Selmy’s not a young man and that could take years. “I’m just offering to get you started.”

Sandor nods, and the hand gripping Sandor’s shoulder finally lets him go only to grab him and pull him into a bear hug. Sandor pulls back and asks him, “So, how does this work? When do we start?”

Barristan leads him upstairs, saying “It starts right now, Sandor. We’re going to get a cup of coffee, and then I’ve got a job for you.” Sandor’s eyebrow quirks at that, and Barristan smirks. “Your job is to shut up and listen.”

* * *

 

Sansa is picking at her date square, nibbling at individual oats and ignoring the central gooey mass of pastry. The half hour between the end of her meeting and the end of Sandor’s has come and gone, and he is nowhere to be seen. A few of the other people she saw walking into the sept have arrived and are seated together, joking and laughing in a way that indicates they are all familiar with each other.

Dany catches her eyeing them, and her mouth curves up. “They’re a good bunch,” she comments. “That room has quite a lot of recovery.” Sansa isn’t sure what that means, and the question must be clear in her face, because Dany elaborates. “A number of the people in that meeting have been sober for multiple years. At Barristan’s birthday last year, there were three people celebrating a combined total of 41 years.”

Sansa is impressed at this, and hopes that’s the appropriate reaction. She feels like a storybook character, like a girl who has fallen into a new world with a new language and new rules, and here she is muddling along hoping no one notices the outsider.

Finally, she sees the familiar bulky form of Sandor walking into the shop, followed by his former employer. She half rises from her seat, but sits back down when Sandor and Mr. Selmy walk past her to sit at another table. Sandor catches her eye and gestures at her with his phone. She has forgotten to turn her ringer back on, and she swipes at the lock screen to see two texts from him. The first is just an “ok” in response to the earlier text she had sent him, the second explains that Mr. Selmy has asked to sit with him and talk a while. Sandor doesn’t seem to be happy sitting there while Mr. Selmy talks, but he is nodding every time Mr. Selmy pauses, and Sansa doesn’t see any of the telltale fidgeting she has learned to recognise as meaning Sandor is feeling overwhelmed.

Dany follows Sansa’s gaze, and reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Barristan is the best at what he does. Your man is in good hands.” She reassures Sansa. Sansa is less certain, though it isn’t Barristan’s hands she is worried about. It is her own.

She can’t stop thinking about her own past mistakes, any future mistakes she might make. She had listened intently during her meeting and she had absorbed every word, and now she can’t stop thinking about responsibility. She wants so desperately to be there every step of the way for Sandor, but she now realises how important it is to put herself first. She wishes she had some of her sister’s careless confidence right now, instead of this overwhelming feeling that she will find, in Arya’s words, new and exciting ways to mess up. Arya never seems phased when she’s done something that hasn’t worked out, but that is not Sansa’s way. Here she is, a woman in her late 20’s, she has the house, the job, and the man, but she has no idea how to put herself first, she was absent the day that lesson was taught.

Sansa has been so busy fretting that she hasn’t noticed Dany glancing at her watch, until Dany apologetically stands up, explaining that she has an appointment to get to. Sansa stands as well, and Dany makes sure her number is in Sansa’s phone before hugging her and walking out of the café.

“Sansa, dear!” Sansa turns to see Mr. Selmy waving her over to join him and Sandor. She slowly walks towards them, looking at Sandor to see if there is any hint in his eyes as to what they’ve been discussing. All she sees is the shiny grey of rain on asphalt, whatever they were discussing has left him feeling emotional. Her heart aches to see his eyes so expressive, when they have been so dull of late.

Mr. Selmy stands, pulls out a chair for her, and she slips into it with a murmured thank you. He remains standing, and looks down at them both.

“I’d best be off, Ashara’s caretaker will be wanting to pick his daughters up from school. It really was lovely to see you again, Sansa. And Sandor,” Mr. Selmy eyes Sandor sternly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”

Sandor grunts in assent, and Mr. Selmy leaves them to stare at the display of reusable mugs, the rings of moisture on the table, the dregs of coffee and tea in their cups, to stare at anything but each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa enjoys a night out, while Sandor enjoys a night in. Neither of them find much enjoyment in their evening.

Step Five: Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

 

October 31

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Sansa asks, as she adjusts her mask.

Sandor fights back the urge to snap at her. She’s asked him if he’s sure at least nine times now, and he has given the same answer each and every time.

“I’m sure, Sansa, really.” His voice is hard, and she looks up at him, cautious eyes behind a mask of feathers. He softens his voice to reassure her. “Go, stretch those feathered wings of yours,” he reaches out to straighten one of her wings. She is dressed as a bird from the Summer Isles, half a dozen vibrant shades of blue. “I’ll be fine.”

She still looks worried. This is just as much a challenge for Sansa as it is for him, this will be the first night she has gone out in nearly two weeks. She hadn’t wanted to go, had offered to stay home and help Sandor hand out sweets. It is Stranger’s Eve, and once the sun goes down there will be a steady stream of children dressed as knights, rangers, dragons, children of the forest. There will be bored older siblings, faces painted to resemble old house sigils, half-hearted attempts at disguising their appearances from the God of Death.

If Sandor were still drinking, he and Sansa would be out already, hopping from bar to bar in costume, taking shots every time they saw a woman dressed as a sexy septa, every man dressed as some weird bondage version of a maester, with chains wrapped around more than his neck. Instead, Sandor is home with a salad bowl full of individually wrapped chocolates and Sansa is a bird acting like she’s about to leave the nest for the first time.

Sansa opens her mouth, and Sandor cuts her off. “Sansa, if you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you to that party.” He grins as he says it. She smiles back, a relieved smile that says more than her words possibly could to reassure him that this is the right call. It is moments like these that their age difference feels thrown in Sandor’s face like cold water, and he does not want to hold her back from whatever it is girls her age ought to be doing. He isn’t sure what that is, but he knows it isn’t staying home with alcoholic boyfriends handing out sweets to kids already hopped up on sugar.

Then there is a honk outside, and Sansa has her shoes on and she is running outside to the sound of laughter pouring the car windows. She turns back once, to look at Sandor. She mouths something, and he can’t make it out, but his heart catches in his chest because he’s pretty sure she’s said “I love you”.

 

Since Sandor’s first meeting, they have reached a détente of sorts, though Sandor is still sleeping in the guest room. Most of their time together is spent watching reality cooking competitions and avoiding any topic more serious than what to have for dinner. They both go to meetings and spend time with their sponsors, but Sansa is taking the anonymity very seriously and refuses to discuss her meetings with Sandor, and so he has not tried to discuss his with her. They are still cautious around each other, and they are still trying to sort out what is or isn’t okay. An episode of Iron Islands Chef involving beer as a main ingredient led to Sansa near hurling herself across the sofa for the remote, and despite Sandor’s swearing he was okay to continue watching, she had insisted on switching over to something else.

Sandor has been going to meetings nearly every day, and getting together with Selmy every day, even if there isn’t a meeting. They are up to the fifth step, and Sandor’s struggling. He figures admitting he has a problem counts, and he supposes attending meetings in septs has to count as admitting to the Gods. He still hasn’t told Selmy everything though. He hasn’t wanted to open that basket yet, hasn’t wanted to let out all the truths he has tucked down, so far down they are nearly unreachable even to himself.

He is alone now. He double-checks that the pumpkins are lit and the porch light is on and settles down in the living room. It’s too quiet. The remote is all his for once, but there is nothing on but holiday specials. Lady is looking at him, tail thumping.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, pup.” He pats the couch, and she gingerly climbs up, turning once to curl up next to him. Awkward as it’s been, he’s gotten used to the new routine he and Sansa have developed, and he’s not sure what to do without her there. There’s leftover pizza in the fridge for dinner, and he thinks maybe he’ll throw in something a bit spookier than the family-oriented stuff they show on cable. He skims the titles of their collection and settles on Poltergeist. Sansa is not a fan of horror movies, so it’s almost nice that she’s out. Almost. He finds himself wishing Lady’s weight against his side was Sansa’s, curled up under his arm, hiding her face every time she thinks something scary is about to happen.

* * *

 

Sansa feels like she’s somehow managed to miss a massively important fact about people in their 20’s. She’s been so wrapped up in her new world that she’s forgotten what a big part alcohol plays in every day socialising. She is surrounded by people who seem to think they won’t have a good time if they’re sober. Some of them seem to believe the Stranger will be deterred by fumes more than a disguise, she thinks, wrinkling her nose at the frat boy who is dancing in front of her. He is dressed like one of the royal guards of yore and his cloak keeps twisting around so it looks like he’s wearing it as some sort of weird smock.

Sansa’s only been there an hour and she already wants to leave.  Sandor’s assurances helped, but she is still worried about leaving him alone, especially at night. She hopes there will be lots of children out tonight, lots of answering the door to distract him from being alone with his thoughts. She’s spent a lot of time with Dany this week working on thoughts, and trying to change her thought process. She’s become adept at identifying negative and guilty thoughts and now she is working on replacing them with confident and hopeful thoughts. All the same, she would much rather be by his side, oohing and aahing at excited children in their costumes, instead of dancing with Ser Whatsit of Whocares. She’s not even sure what he’s doing qualifies as dancing.

She shimmies away from him and makes her way to the bar at the back of the club. Jeyne is doing shots with a group of tourney knights. She is dressed as a sexy septa, and Sansa mentally adds that to the shots she would have consumed tonight if she were playing that game. She waves at Jeyne to get her attention, and gestures to the front door. Jeyne waves back at her enthusiastically, not really noticing what Sansa’s trying to tell her. Sansa shrugs, and weaves through the crowd to the front, and out to the cool fall air. She is overly warm from the club and she decides to walk a few blocks before hailing a cab home.

* * *

 

The movie is over, most of the candy has been handed out, and Sandor’s got a stomachache with only himself to blame. For every few pieces handed out, he’s eaten one, and there is now a pile of wrappers at his feet, Lady nosing them hopefully. He isn’t sure why he felt compelled to eat so many, though he knows it probably wasn’t anything good. He hits the speed dial on his phone to call Selmy, then puts it on speaker and lays it on his stomach.

“Selmy here.”

“Hey, it’s me. Listen man, is there crack in chocolate?”

There is silence, and then a chuckle. “You indulge a little too heavily in the sweets you were handing out?”

Sandor grunts, and sits up slightly, picking up the phone and holding it in front of his face.

“I feel like shit, and I haven’t even had a drink. What the fuck, man.”

Selmy hums at this. “Addiction is addiction, brother. Anything can be had to the point of excess. I can’t tell you how many people I see who just replace booze with something else, anything else. Wait til you see a big birthday, watching a bunch of alkies attack a birthday cake is better’n feeding time at the zoo.” He stops speaking, and Sandor senses something more is coming.

“You thought anymore about your fifth step?”

Sandor grunts again. “I don’t know, man. I get why it’s important and all, but you don’t know what you’re asking me. The exact nature of my wrongs, I mean fuck, there’s a lot there.”

“Hey, Sandor, I get it. I really do. You think I was born a sober mechanic? We’ve all been there, we’ve all done stupid shit.” There is a muffled sound, and Selmy corrects himself. “Sorry, stupid crap. Ashara’s on me to stop swearing so much, she thinks the grandbabes will pick it up.”

Sandor laughs, then winces at the movement it has caused in his stomach.

Selmy laughs too. “Hey, old dogs and new tricks, right? She keeps trying, though. Gods love her.” Sandor can hear the affection in Selmy’s voice, and his stomach tightens. He wishes Sansa would come home already.

“Hey, listen. You said you and Sansa have a dog, yeah?” Selmy asks.

Sandor looks down at Lady, who has lost hope in the wrappers and is now resting with her head on his feet, eyebrows doing that quirking thing that she does when she’s uncertain about something. He flexes his feet to rub at her neck.

“Yeah, we do. Lady’s a good pup, yes she is.” That last bit is said more to Lady than Selmy, and both respond with a snort, Lady’s satisfied and Selmy’s good-natured.

“Why don’t you practice with her?” Selmy suggests. “So you don’t want to confess all your sins to me yet, that’s alright. Tell’em to Lady. Get it all out in the open air and see how you feel. Might be then it won’t be so hard to revisit them after with another person.”

It sounds kind of ridiculous, but Sandor can see the sense in it all the same. He already talks to the dog, the words washing over her like water over river rocks. He could use her as practice, figure out the best way to get it all out with the least amount of pain.

“Yeah, alright man. I’ll give it a go. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Always, Sandor. Hang in there.”

Sandor disconnects the phone, and reaches down to scritch behind Lady’s ears. She lolls happily, tongue half hanging out of her mouth. A few minutes go by like this, the two of them a tableau of man and dog. Lady breaks the moment abruptly when she hears the front door open, and she scrabbles down the hall barking happily. Sandor wishes he could express his happiness in such a carefree manner, but he settles for ambling after her and smiling tiredly at Sansa. She is on the floor, nose in Lady’s fur. Her wings look a bit ragged but she seems otherwise the same as she was a few hours ago.

“You have a good time?” He asks awkwardly.

She smiles up at him. “Yeah, I did. You?”

“Oh yeah, you know us. We bach it up real good, pupdog and me.” They are both smiling in that false shiny manner that indicates falsehood, they both know the other is lying but neither has the energy to say anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor opens up about his past.

Step Six: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. 

January 18

Much like his first meeting, Beric is the one handing out chips. Sandor is fidgeting, Beric likes to work backwards, so he is waiting anxiously for his turn to come up and be over with. When Beric finally asks if anyone wants their ninety-day chip, Sandor stands up so abruptly his chair shakes a bit. He’s dimly aware of applause, but he is pretty sure it’s thunderous only in his head. Beric pulls him in for a hug and Sandor surprises himself by leaning into it. Beric is a good guy, they’ve been known to hang out outside the rooms on occasion, tossing a football around with Lady and Thoros, Beric’s Cairn terrier.

He walks back to his seat, looking to the back of the room. It is an open meeting today, and Sansa is standing by the door, beaming at him. This is the first time she’s seen him take a tag, the first time he’s asked her to be there. He feels like he might finally be at a point where relapse isn’t foremost on his mind and so he can focus on the hope and the approval more than the worry and disappointment.

When the meeting is over, he winds his way over to Sansa, who is standing with Wylla, the mermaid-haired girl who comes and goes. She travels for work, and is always careful to let him or Osha know whenever she’ll be gone more than a few days. He is never sure what colour her hair will be when she shows up. Today’s shade, well, he’s sure Pantone has a pretentious name for it but to him it is just pastel green, like something he might see on Sansa’s nails come Spring.

“Well done, man!” Wylla punches him lightly on the arm. Wylla has a few months on him, has recently picked up her nine-month chip. They’ve worked together a few times, in that they’ve sat together at the coffee shop, each with a notebook, passing the Blue Book back and forth between them.

The three of them walk upstairs together, where they are greeted by Wylla’s high school sweetheart, – and Sandor is amazed that concept still exists, but here they are a few years out of school and still in love – Shireen, who is standing in front of the statue of the Father. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and when Wylla notices, her face falls.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Wylla asks, reaching for her girlfriend, checking her over for evidence of injury, some reason for her now-dry but still tear-stained face.

Shireen pulls away with a wry grin. “I’m fine, babe, I’m fine. I was on the phone with Myrcella for over an hour, things have gotten really bad again. I’m just worried is all.”

Sandor looks to Sansa for explanation, but she shakes her head.

Wylla turns to them and says in a rush, “Sansa, I’m really sorry but can we raincheque that coffee?”

Sansa nods, “Of course, Wylla, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later.”

Sandor wants to know what’s going on, but doesn’t want to appear anxious for gossip, so he sits patiently at the coffee shop while Sansa talks about her new coworker, the shoes she is thinking about buying, the story she heard from Dany about their mutual cousin, a family connection only discovered after a month of daily conversations.

It’s not until they are home and preparing dinner that Sansa tells Sandor what she knows about Wylla’s girlfriend.

“It’s her uncle, his drinking has been getting progressively worse since his divorce. She’s really worried about him, and her cousins. She’s not the only one either, there’s a fellow in the rooms-“ she stops herself. Sandor gets the whole anonymity thing, but Sansa’s much more consistent with it, refusing to say anything that might help Sandor identify someone who doesn’t wish to be outed as a member of her fellowship.

“Hey,” he reaches for Sansa, drawing her to him. It’s been three months, and he’s finally worked through his fifth step, finally told his sponsor everything there is to tell. He’s not sure how to tell her that he already knows who she means, knew when he heard Shireen mention the name Myrcella. He knows Myrcella Baratheon, knows her father and mother, her older brother. “Hey,” he repeats, softer this time. “I ever tell you about the time I spent as a bodyguard for Cersei Baratheon?”

Sansa’s eyes widen at that name, and it is clear that he hasn’t. He’s cautious not to go into too much detail, he has long since decided to try and protect Sansa from the worst of his past as much as possible.

“This was almost twenty years ago,” he begins, “I landed a gig acting as bodyguard for a bored pregnant socialite named Cersei Baratheon. It was a cushy gig; she didn’t do much beyond sending me out for sweets. Her husband though, he was a fun guy.”

“And when you say fun guy, you mean…” Sansa looks to him for confirmation.

Sandor nods. “Robert was more interested in drinking than parenting the kid they already had while his mom was on bed rest. I wound up playing babysitter pretty often. Usually after a night of drinking with the kid’s dad. Poor kid didn’t have a chance.”

“What happened?” Sansa asks softly, like she is afraid of the answer.

“Cersei went into labour early. Her husband was drunk. I was drunk. Sober enough that I thought I could get her to the hospital in time.”

It’s out before Sandor has a chance to edit himself. His plan of keeping the worst hidden is shot, he is in for a penny and in for a pound. Sansa’s pale, hands clenched and trembling.

“What happened, Sandor?”                                                                  

He sighs. “There was an accident. When Cersei went into labour, she was expecting healthy twins. When the ambulance finally came, Myrcella was born and there was nothing they could do for the other one.”

Seven hells, he needs a drink right now. The look on Sansa’s face is scarier than the look on her face that night Gendry drove him home. It is a look of utter terror. He thinks that perhaps for the first time, Sansa understands how much he carries inside of himself, what horrors he is capable of.

“Sansa,” she stands up, walks silently over to the sink. He tries again, “Sansa – ”, and she holds up a hand to stop him.

She is leaning over the sink now, retching. His stomach is churning; he doesn’t know what to do and fuck but he needs a drink.

“I’m going to go. I just…I’m going out.” And Sandor is out of the house before he can hear Sansa’s voice asking him to stay.

* * *

 

Sansa is a mess. Switching on the garbage disposal, she watches her afternoon snack disappear down the drain. She knows, has always known, Sandor had demons in his past, demons he has tried to keep from her. She knows the basics of his scars, the story behind why he has no family. She thought she understood the reasons he drank, but she is realising that his reasons have reasons, there are so many layers to his pain. Her heart breaks for Cersei, this woman she does not know, and for her children and for Shireen, and for Renly, the man she had nearly named earlier, who she knows to be Shireen’s uncle and so the brother he often mentions must be her other uncle, Sandor’s “fun guy”, Robert.

Sansa is young enough that she still tells herself she has time to decide if she wants children. She’s always thought she does want them, always imagines herself like her mother, with a bushel of babies around her. The age difference between herself and Sandor doesn’t worry her too much, but it has always been his primary explanation for his own reluctance towards children. She understands now his concerns, not for his age but for his past. Her heart aches to think about how much guilt he must carry around, how he is denying himself a chance at parenting because his actions denied someone else that same chance.

She’s been standing at the sink lost in thought for so long that she hasn’t noticed the sun setting through the window in front of her, lost in her own world until she feels Lady’s paw on her knee, reminding her that while humans may lose their appetites, dogs rarely experience that sensation.

She doesn’t know if she should wait up for Sandor or not. He hadn’t said where he was going, and she doesn’t know the names of most of his friends, just Edd at the bar, and his sponsor, Mr. Selmy. They are both strong possibilities for Sandor’s whereabouts, but only one scares her. It’s been a difficult three months, but Sansa’s trust in Sandor has so far remained unwavering. He has shown a dedication to sobriety, a dedication that none of his jobs has ever inspired. All the same, time means nothing to an addiction.

She thinks about one of the other women she sees at meetings, who has been attending the meetings for ten years now. Sansa had been aghast that this woman was still struggling with an addict after so long, is sure that she would have left Sandor for good long before that. She had been even more confused to learn that the woman’s husband was in recovery, and had been sober for those ten years. Sansa had asked why she still came, if her husband was sober, and the reply she got had echoed in Sansa’s head for the rest of the day.

“At any given moment, my husband is one step away from having a drink. I trust him to make the right choice, but I don’t trust his addiction. We’re a team, and I have to always be ready to help him fight that battle.”

Hearing that had driven home a truth Sansa had been trying to ignore, the idea that Sandor would never be fully cured, there was no being cured from addiction. There was only using and recovering. Sansa doesn’t know if she has the strength required to fight a battle that never ends. She hopes so.

* * *

 

Sandor’s feet have taken control, his brain too busy short circuiting to focus on matters like where to go. He is standing in front of Edd’s bar now, and one of the tubes in the neon sign is running low on juice, flickering rapidly, staticky like the neurons in his brain that are screaming at him “GO INSIDE. HAVE A DRINK. FORGET YOUR PROBLEMS.”

“NO!” He yells. He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until a squeak from somewhere below him shows a startled stray cat, fur puffed up in every direction, cowering behind one of the bench planters near the curb. He wants to kick the cat, wants to focus every ounce of anger and pain and guilt he feels and shoot it out of his foot and never feel any of it again. The door to the bar swings open and shut again, just a couple of college kids out for a liquid supper, cheaper than real food. He remembers himself at that age, already full of hate for the world, counting his money and figuring out how many packets of noodles he could buy and still have money left for beer.

The door swings open again, and this time it is Edd standing in the doorway. He peers up at Sandor, confused.

“Sandor? What are you doing here, man?” His eyes dart nervously between Sandor and the open door.

“Edd.” Sandor croaks. His throat is so dry. “Edd, please. Don’t say anything. I just…I need a drink, man. One drink.”

Edd is a business man, but he is also the closest thing Sandor has to a friend outside the rooms, and he’s shaking his head.

“Forget it, man. Don’t even think about coming in here. You want to ruin yourself, find another bar to do it in.”

Sandor slumps down onto the bench planter, further startling the cat that is still hunched there. He hasn’t felt this alone since he was a child, face on fire and family lying out of what – fear? Apathy to their younger child? He reaches a hand up to his scars, skin grafts have only managed so much, he still can’t feel, not even his own fingers on his face.

The door has shut now, Edd is back behind his bar and Sandor is on his own. He could do as Edd suggests, find another bar. He could, but he knows he won’t. He reaches for his phone, dials one of only two numbers he has managed to memorise.

He hears a mumbled “hello” and realises it is later than he thought, he’s woken Barristan up.

“Fuck, shit, sorry man, I didn’t know you would be asleep.” He curses himself, Barristan isn’t a young man, of course he’s in bed.

Selmy is wide awake now, has shaken the sleep off the minute he heard Sandor’s voice.

“What’s going on, Sandor? Everything okay? Where are you?”

“I’m in front of a bar. I want to go in. I really, really want to go in.”

“Are you going to?” Selmy asks.

Sandor sighs. “I’m calling you, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be a smartass. Where are you, I’m on my way.”

Sandor gives him the address, and turns away from the flickering neon sign to wait for his redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets a bit of a talking-to from his sponsor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to my three readers that it's been so long since I updated. I struggled with this chapter and Sandor's headspace. I'm hopeful the next update will not take six months to write!

Step 7: Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

 

January 19

It is late, so late that it is essentially early morning, and Sansa has not slept. Her mind has spent hours filling with visions of Sandor behind the wheel of a car, throat working as he gulps down beer after beer as he drives. At some point in her reverie, the phone had rung, Mr. Selmy calling to tell her that he had picked up Sandor, that Sandor was staying with him, that he would make sure Sandor called her when he is able. She doesn’t understand that phrase, “when he is able”. She didn’t know if Sandor was drunk or not, if he has even had a drink or not, but she does not allow a voice to these questions, instead just thanking Barristan and allowing herself to fall into bed. Knowing Sandor is safe is not enough, does not seem enough of an assurance for her brain to let her sleep, so she lies there still awake as the night passes and dawn arrives.

Unable to sleep, there is no reason for Sansa to have spent the night in bed, but it felt normal to do so, and she craves normalcy right now. Her phone reads 4:30 and she gives up. She may as well get an early start to her day, distract herself with the minutiae of routine. Lady pads over to her as she is brushing her teeth, her nose a wet point on Sansa's knee. She looks down at Lady, who would normally be chasing dream squirrels for another two or three hours. Lady looks up at her and huffs, before padding back to the bed and curling up on Sandor’s side.

“None of this is my fault, you know!” She gurgles to the dog through a mouth full of toothpaste. She won’t take responsibility for this. She doesn’t know if that qualifies as inner strength or denial.

No sooner has Lady settled down, she is jumping up again, pawing at the pillows. Sansa's phone is vibrating rapidly and she runs over to the bed, grabbing her phone and swiping to see who is calling her at this hour. It is Arya, and Sansa hasn't the energy to talk to her spitfire sister right now, so she mutes the phone and throws it back down on her pillow, flopping down after it. Lady belly-crawls over to her and Sansa puts an arm around her dog, puts her face to Lady's fur and inhales deeply. Lady reciprocates with a tongue on Sansa's wrist and the two of them lie together, two spoons in a bed meant for three.

* * *

 

Selmy says nothing when Sandor gets into the car, says nothing as he drives, says nothing until they are in his driveway. The house is dark but for one window, and it is just enough light pouring through that Sandor can see his sponsor's face in shadow and silhouette. The shadows shift and move as Selmy turns to face him. Sandor opens his mouth, not really sure what he's going to say but feeling like he should say something.

Selmy raises one hand, silencing Sandor before he can form a sentence. "It's late, Sandor. The guest bed's been made. We'll talk in the morning." Sandor nods, and they both unfold themselves from the car. Selmy leads him to the guest room, shows him the towels laid out if he wants a shower. They exchange no more words, saying good night through glances and Selmy's hand on Sandor's shoulder.

Sandor is cold, his body and brain only now communicating to realise he left his house without a coat. He wants a shower but doesn't think he has the strength to stand much longer, so he settles for shucking off his pants and sweater and crawling into the bed. It's too small by far, and he brings his knees up to his chest, piles the blankets around and over himself and tries to empty his mind into the void that is a dreamless sleep.

He awakes sometime later from a sleep that was not nearly as dreamless as he'd have liked. He wants to stay there curled up in his misery nest but he can smell maple syrup and a bready aroma. Sandor's eaten nothing since the café the day before and his stomach is demanding satiation. He grabs one of the towels and quietly makes his way to the guest bathroom, pausing at the top of the stairs. He can see into the kitchen, and he sees Selmy at the stove, Ashara's chair wheeled up against the table. She is chattering about something, though Sandor can't hear what, and he is happy to see how much better she is doing these days.

She must hear him, because her head turns and she looks up at him. Sandor feels caught, unable to move in the beam of her gaze. She smiles at him, but there is a sadness on her face. He thinks the smile he gives in return probably looks more like a grimace.

He wants to linger in the shower, the stream of water hitting right between his shoulders, pounding at the knots there, but he moves quickly, wants this whole morning to be over as quickly as possible. Clean and toweled off, Sandor slips back into yesterday’s outfit and makes his way down to the kitchen.

Selmy hands him a large mug of black coffee and guides him to the table. There are hotcakes, steam softening the butter in it’s dish. There is also bacon, crisp and browned, and a jug of golden maple syrup. He vaguely remembers that Ashara’s brother runs a sugar-bush out in the country. Sandor sits, waits as Selmy puts together a plate for his wife and loads up his own plate before handing the serving tongs over.

They sit quietly, the only sounds the clatter of cutlery and occasional slurps of coffee. Ashara has a special set of cutlery to compensate for her weaker side and Sandor tries not to stare at her. He remembers how bad her last stroke was, remembers thinking that if he were Selmy he’d probably look for the nearest hospice and pub, in that order. Instead, his former boss had sold his business and become a full-time caretaker for his wife, and now here she is, and clearly whatever Selmy does for her is working because her slur is nearly imperceptible unless one is listening for it.

He is both gratified and surprised to see that he is able to eat two helpings of everything, his stress abated enough that it lets him fill his stomach without complaint. He’d expected to throw up at the first bite. Breakfast finished, he stands to follow Selmy into the garage, where Barristan has a workshop-office setup. He is stopped by a delicate hand on his arm.

“Sandor, would you please help me into the parlour?” Ashara asks him, voice quavering only slightly. He half suspects the quaver to be a put-on, but he wheels her into the parlour, a room that looks like a slightly mad greenhouse that’s had some overstuffed Aegon III furniture chucked in. There are plants everywhere and he has to bat some fronds out of the way as he wheels her chair into place. She pats the arm of the chair next to her, and he perches on it uncomfortably. The legs of his seat look spindly and he doesn’t trust any furniture that’s named for a dead monarch.

Ashara peers up at him and there is that sad look again. He shifts awkwardly, feeling suddenly like he’s been called to the headmaster’s office.

“Sandor, you silly, stupid boy.” His head shoots up at this. Ashara is looking directly at him, and there is a steely look in her eyes that he remembers from his time at the shop. He opens his mouth, closes it again as he realises he has no response. Then he opens his mouth again, and before he is even completely aware of it, he is telling Ashara every detail about yesterday’s confession, every detail, even Sansa being sick into the sink and the look on Edd’s face when he’d seen Sandor outside the bar. Ashara is quiet, but she grabs hold of his hand and he clutches it like she is his life preserver. When his story is finished, she grips his chin, tilts his head down so they are eye-to-eye.

“Sandor, my dear boy. Do you think you are the first man to shock his lover in such a way? The only man to have painful secrets that have been drowning in a vat of alcohol?” She stutters on the last word. He is saved from answering by Barristan’s entrance.

“She’s right, Sandor.” Barristan takes a seat on the other side of Ashara’s wheelchair. “That’s the whole point of sponsorship. I serve to remind you that you ain’t the first to go through this, and like hells you’ll be the last. You did a good thing, calling me last night – but boy, we have got some real work to do and I need to know you’re ready to do it.”

Sandor shoves his hands into his eyes, knuckling at unshed tears like a toddler. His arms muffle his voice as he speaks, but he says it clear enough for his sponsor to hear. “I’m not ready, Barristan. I’m sick of the secrets and I know this is the only way to move past it, but godsdamnit. I just can’t.”

He feels more than hears Selmy’s sigh, and he cautions a peek to see Selmy and his wife sharing a look of understanding. Ashara wheels closer to Sandor and gives him a gentle peck on the cheek before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

“Sandor, what’s the second step?”

“Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” Sandor mumbles.

“Uh-huh. And the seventh? What step are we working on right now?”

“Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. What, you want me to pray to the Gods? Those fuckers never helped me before.”

Selmy sighs again. “It’s not just about asking the Gods for help, Sandor. It’s about asking for help in general. It’s about realising that there’s no shame in needing a hand. Sometimes we all gotta humble ourselves and realise we can’t fix shit on our own. There’s nothing wrong in asking for a hand from someone who’s been down that road already. Let me tell you a story. This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a septon comes along and the guy shouts up, 'I'm down in this hole, can you help me out?' The septon writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

Sandor stares at Selmy. “The fuck is the point of that story? You’ve been in the hole, so you’re gonna help me get out?”

“That’s exactly the point, my boy. I’ve been in the hole, and I’m gonna help you get out. Assuming, that is, you think you have it in you to get out. I can leave you down there if you’d rather, but I can’t promise the next person who comes along is gonna know where the exit is.”

Sandor mops at his face, rubs his jaw. He’s been afraid of the next step for a while. It’s where shit gets real, and he’s not sure he’s ready for it. He thinks about Selmy’s story then, and he knows that he’s sure as shit sick of life in that hole.

“Alright, man. Fuck. I’m still not ready, but let’s do this.”

Selmy beams at him. “Good choice. Come on, let’s get you home. We’ll start with Sansa.”

Sandor groans internally. He regrets his choice already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selmy's story comes from the brilliant West Wing episode "Noel", written by the brilliant Aaron Sorkin. It's told in the show by Leo McGarry. Leo is a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, an artistic choice made by John Spencer, the actor who played Leo, as he was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict and he wanted his character to reflect that. The whole show is amazing and this episode in particular. I recommend it to everyone!
> 
> As always:  
> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor writes his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write - so hard it took me a year. I wrote myself into a corner, and then I spent a lot of time struggling with my decision to write on such a deeply personal subject. I'm back though, and with the help of my noodles, I've been able to reevaluate the direction in which I am taking this story, and I feel really good about it. I am immensely grateful to anyone who has been following this - every one of you is valued.

Step Eight: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

 

January 31

1\. Sansa 2. Cersei 3. Elinor.

Sandor only realises he’s lost in thought when the pen in his hand falls to the table, snapping him out of it. He shakes his head, trying to wave away the cobwebs of memory threatening to weave over his present focus. He scratches Elinor’s name out, there’s nothing he can say to her now that will fix her state. What’s dead stays dead, and there’s no amends that will bring her back.

Sandor had returned home after two nights at Selmy’s and this paper with three names on it is all he has to show for a week of working his eighth step. He knows the paper should be filled, can think of a dozen or more names easily that belong here, but he’s stuck on the second part of the step. Willing to make amends? Why should he be willing to make amends to any of the jackholes he used to drink with? He imagines them all sober and working on steps together, a circle jerk of apologies going around and around. Not likely, he thinks.

When he’d finally come home, Sansa had been there. That was a surprise, and he’d asked if she wanted him to stay away, get a room at a motel for a while. It’d been a second surprise when she quite forcefully said no, when she’d reminded him that they were fighting this together, and neither of them were going anywhere godsdammit. She’d flushed when she swore, and it was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. He knew she was walking her own path with her sponsor, and he was pretty sure she’d also been talking to Wylla, if Wyl’s sympathetic glances were anything to go by at recent meetings. Sympathy, for him. He groaned, rubbed his eyes. He doubted she’d feel anything akin to sympathy if she knew the truth.

He looks back down at his list. He’s quietly been working on the first name since coming home, and he’s got no hope for the third, which leaves one name. Cersei fucking Baratheon. Sandor is not afraid to admit that he’s a coward when it’s the truth, and right now Sandor is completely and utterly craven. Sandor has not seen Cersei since the hospital, since that complete wreck of a night some 18 years ago. He remembers flashing lights, sirens, and blank-faced paramedics who slapped a butterfly bandage on his forehead and promptly ignored him in favour of assisting a hysterical Cersei as she gave birth in the backseat of a crumpled car. After that, there is a black hole where his memories should be, a black hole lasting a week and tasting of cheap whiskey. When he’d finally come back to himself, there was a registered letter from Tywin Lannister informing him that his services were no longer needed, and he’d be wise to make himself scarce. He’s listened for 18 years and now it’s time for him to make amends and fucking hell but he is terrified. What if she wants him to meet Myrcella? What if she blames him for the divorce? Rationally he knows that isn’t likely, the divorce is recent, but there’s nothing rational about the way he’s feeling right now. He’s not actually sure what he’s most afraid of – Cersei’s anger, or her absolution. He’s never forgiven himself for that night, and he can’t stomach the thought of someone else doing it for him.

* * *

 

Sansa hovers outside the spare room. She can’t call it the guest room, it’s inhabitant is more than a guest in her home. She wants him where he belongs, in the master bedroom at the end of the hall. She’s trying to give him space, trying to give them both space, because she knows truthfully, she needs it just as much. She’s been with Sandor for most of her twenties, and Harry before that, and Loras before him. She hasn’t been single for longer than a month or two since her sophomore year of high school, and she’s never really sorted out how to be alone. Not that she wants to, but Dany has her working on wants versus needs, and even if things DO work out, she needs to know that she can be okay if it doesn’t.

She steels herself, knocks on the door. She hears the chair creak, Sandor padding over to open the door. He fills the doorway, looks down at her. She briefly forgets why she’s been lingering outside the door. Sandor inhales deeply, eyebrows drawing together.

“Do I smell Lorathi pilau?” he asks, hopefully.

Right, dinner. That’s why she’s standing there.

“Yeah, I thought I’d try a new spice blend. Dany took me to this little café today, and they sell packets of the stuff they use. Maybe we could go there at some point, they sell those big oat cookies like you like?” She’s not sure why she turned that into a question. Or why she’s rambling. Or why her heart is pushing against her ribcage like a bird trying to escape its cage.

Sandor nods carefully. “I’d like that.” He grins at her. “As long as the cookies are better than the ones you and Arya made last summer.”

First of all, Arya was the one who had skipped an entire line in the recipe and forgot to add sugar. Secondly, her heart-bird has stopped fluttering madly and is now treading carefully. This is good, this is right. Them, joking, light-hearted conversation. It’s something. A start, maybe. She knows Sandor’s strength has never been in his words, but it hasn’t stopped him from working on his 8th step with her. She knows he’s terrified, sees as he eddies closer and closer to the vortex that is moving on to the next step, but when he’s with her she can tell he’s working hard to push that back behind a door in his mind and be present with her. Amends are cheap if they are trite, she thinks. Anyone can say the words. Sandor’s way shows more than just intent, it shows thought. She thinks about the wording of the 8th step – became willing to make amends. It’s a monumental step for Sandor even outside of his stepwork. For him to be clean and present, to allow himself these feelings of terror but push through them and be willing to fix what is broken. She knows how scared he is of Cersei Baratheon, how he still doesn’t entirely believe there is anything fixable in that situation, and the bird in her heart pounds at her chest again as a feeling of pride in him swells up within her, because at least he’s going to try.

* * *

 

February 2

Sandor is standing in front of a 19th-century rowhouse that probably costs more than every penny he’s ever earned. Or every penny he’s ever spent on booze, which might be the higher number. The address is scrawled on a scrap of paper handed to him by Wylla, who’d gotten it from Shireen. She asks him if he knows what he’s doing before handing it over, and he’s blunt as ever when he says no. His hand trembles as it reaches for the doorbell. He feels like one of those fucking trees in that movie that Sansa watches through at least once a month, the one about the gay guys on the mountain. It is likely that he goes to his doom, as the line goes. Mind you, the trees seemed to make it out okay, he thinks.

He jabs a finger into the doorbell before he can think of another reason not to, and he can hear the faint chiming echo throughout the house. There is a muted thunder of footsteps, and the door is opened by a boy who looks to be in his teens. Myrcella’s boyfriend, maybe? Sandor gruffly introduces himself and asks if Cersei is home.

The boy looks confused. Maybe Sandor has the wrong house? His confusion mounts when the boy opens his mouth.

“What do you want with my mom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor makes amends.

Step Nine: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

February 2

“What do you want with my mom?"

Sandor is frozen with uncertainty. This boy is too young to be Joffrey, and he’s quite clearly not Myrcella.

He doesn’t know how to respond, but is saved from needing to by an additional head poking out the front door.

“Tristan, who is it?” Long bottle-blond waves have been replaced with an asymmetric bob, naturally smooth skin now kept wrinkle-free with science, but the voice is the same. Cersei Baratheon stands there, looks at him. Her eyes widen in -surprise? Dismay? He doesn’t know, could never get a read on her.

“Tristan, go inside.” Her voice is clipped. The boy shrugs, disappears into the house.

Cersei steps onto the porch, snakes an arm up into the eavestrough, fishes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lights up, blows a thin stream of smoke to one side.

“Never thought I’d be seeing you again, Clegane.”

Sandor doesn’t know how to respond. He shifts awkwardly, feels like he’s been called to the principal’s office. He wishes he’d written down what he wanted to say.

“Did you know it was the twins birthday last weekend?” Cersei asks thoughtfully. “They’ve just turned 18. Robert wanted to take them to some dive bar. Because nothing says ‘happy birthday, welcome to adulthood’ like getting trashed with your old man, right?” She snorts, smoke curling up around her face. “Mind you, the way they came into the world, I guess it fits.”

Sandor hums, then pauses. Twins? He narrows his eyes at Cersei. She looks back at him evenly.

Last weekend. 18 years last weekend. Had the anniversary of that night really come and gone without him noticing?

“I thought.” His voice comes out jagged. He clears his throat, tries again. “You lost the boy. We crashed, and you went into labour, and only the girl survived. You gave birth in the backseat of my car.” He feels dazed, an entire portion of his story is being rewritten in front of him and he’s not sure how to handle the new information.

“You don’t remember the helicopter?” Sandor shakes his head. “Yeah, Myrcella was born in the car, and then they evac’d us in a chopper. Tristan was born on the helipad of the hospital. It’s funny, Joffrey was born in a hunting cabin. Three babes, none of them could be damned to wait for me to get to a hospital bed.” She laughs, but it comes out like over-brewed tea, bitter and jarring.

Sandor is shaking, his entire body overcome with tremors. Anger, confusion, pain, 18 years of guilt drowned in the bottle he’d tucked it away in. He thinks vaguely that he should feel better, not having that child’s death on his conscience, but he just feels empty.

“So now we’ve got that nice little bit of catching up done, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” Cersei lights a second cigarette, stubs out the first, tucks it into her shirt pocket.

Sandor rubs the back of his neck, unsure now how to move forward. “Well, uh, I joined this program, and there’s these steps – “

Cersei’s mouth drops open, nearly dropping her cigarette. “Bloody hell, Clegane. You’ve got my name written down on your list, people you hurt and all that. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Sandor is silent, which is answer enough for her. She laughs, that bitter-tea sound again.

“Oh Sandor, you stupid, stupid man.” She sighs. “I never blamed you for that night. It wasn’t your fault you thought you could possibly hold your own against Robert’s drinking, it wasn’t your fault that I decided not to wait for an ambulance.” Her voice softens. “If it’s forgiveness you want, it’s yours.”

None of this has gone the way Sandor expected. He doesn’t know how to process this, doesn’t know how to complete this step. He’s worked himself up to this, was so sure he owed this woman everything he could possibly give her, and now she is standing there not only absolving him, but telling him there wasn’t even anything to feel guilty about. He’s suddenly very thirsty.

Cersei’s hand hovers over his arm, uncertain. She pats him awkwardly on the shoulder twice, like she might try to soothe a fretful hound. “Well, this has been fun. Let’s try not to do it again, hm?” She tucks her cigarettes back in their hiding place, opens the door, disappears back into her rowhouse and is once again out of his life.

He sighs heavily, pulls out his phone and calls Barristan.

* * *

 

“I’m not telling you to forgive him, I’m just asking you to listen to what he has to say.” Sansa’s got her phone tucked in under her ear as she sweeps, wipes down the counter, fiddles with the microwave door, anything to keep her hands from falling into their natural wringing mode.

“Sansa, lovey, of course I’ll listen. I just don’t know that I can promise the same for your mother or Robb.” Her father sighs, a heavy exhale into the phone.

Sansa frowns. She knows they mean well, their anger comes from a want to protect her from the pain of always coming second to Sandor’s alcoholism. She just wishes her mother and older brother weren’t so set on seeing her eternally as the dreamy little girl she was as a child.

“We’ll all be here, I can promise you that much.” Ned adds. “I’ve called a Thing.”

A Thing, Sansa cringes, grateful Ned cannot see her. Things are a Stark tradition, where everyone is called to a family meeting to discuss serious situations. The last Thing was called when Rickon had announced his desire to drop out of school and join the R’hllorists. They usually ended in at least one person crying, and Sansa prays it isn't her this time.

“Sounds good!” Sansa chirps, hoping her father won’t hear the falsity in her voice. They say their goodbyes, and as soon as she ends the phone call she is dialing Dany.

 

February 9th

Sansa’s hands flutter, smoothing down her hair, adjusting her collar, reaching down to rub the worry stone she keeps in her jacket pocket. It’s always a strange feeling to return to her parents’ home as an adult on equal footing, but the purpose of tonight adds to the surreal atmosphere. Sandor is next to her clutching his notebook in one hand and a jar of fruit salad in the other.

She jabs at the doorbell, the ensuing chime echoing the pounding she feels in her heart. The door is thrown open and Arya stands there, arms folded in front of her.

“What’s the password?” She challenges Sandor.

He shrugs. “I’m an asshole, but I brought fruit salad?”

Arya’s eyes flicker down to the jar and back up to his face. “It better not have strawberries.” She stands to the side, letting them in.

They walk into the living room and the weight of the situation fully hits Sansa. Her father was not kidding when he said he was calling a Thing. All of her siblings are there with their significant others, even Bran and Meera, who live a two-hour drive away.

There are two seats left, and her heart twinges when she sees one is between her mother and Bran, and the other is a lone chair positioned in such a way that the inhabitant will be facing everyone like it is a job interview. Or an interrogation, her brain points out.

Sandor doesn’t react, just sits in the chair, notebook open on his knee. Sansa looks pointedly at her mother as she perches on the arm of Sandor’s chair, her hand on his arm. She feels him relax ever so slightly under her touch. Catelyn purses her lips but says nothing.

They all say nothing as Sandor begins speaking. It is not new information to Sansa, she knows what he’s been planning to say, and as he goes on she feels pride swelling in her heart at how vulnerable Sandor is making himself in this moment. She looks around the room, trying to gauge how people are thinking. Rickon is slouched in his seat and looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Sansa doesn’t blame him.

Bran’s eyes are closed, but she knows that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. Meera is clutching his hand tightly. Sansa wonders how familiar this is to her, she knows Meera’s brother has had some substance problems of his own but the severity of it had never really been discussed.

Arya’s arms are still folded across her chest, but she is gnawing her lip in the way Sansa knows means she is carefully considering everything she is hearing. Gendry is next to her, and Sansa feels a particular warmth for him, knows it’s him who had given Sandor the pamphlet she’d found back in October. He’s listening carefully, nodding occasionally.

Robb is mimicking Arya’s pose, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn down. His wife Roslin is dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, but she doesn’t know them that well and Sansa thinks her emotional response is likely a result of her being heavily pregnant more than anything else.

Ned sits stoic, a stone man in the making. Sansa has never been able to tell what he’s thinking, and today is no exception. She hopes he is listening, as he promised. Her mother is expressive where Ned is not, the muscles in her cheek twitching as she takes in everything Sandor is saying. She blinks rapidly, and Sansa is startled to realise her mother has tears in her eyes. A tendril of hope weaves it’s way through her, and she lets herself relax just a little bit.

* * *

 

An eternity passes in the twenty minutes that Sandor speaks. His notebook is open on his knee but he hasn’t had to look at it, everything he wants to say coming naturally, for once. It pains him to bring up specific memories, but he wants to be as thorough as possible, so he delves into those times he can remember when his disease directly impacted Sansa’s family. He’s grateful in a way that this is meant to be a direct amends, things he’s done specifically to them, rather than a vague apology for hurting someone they love, because if he had to apologise to Catelyn Stark for every thing he’s done to Sansa, they’d be there for days and she’d probably never let him near her daughter again.

He finally winds down, runs out of things to say, and when he stops speaking the room is so silent it’s as if no one is breathing. Next to him, Sansa’s hand rubs comfortingly up and down his arm as the two of them wait, a united front against what may be an assault of arguments as her family decides how to respond.

Arya is the first to break the silence. “Like you said when you got here, you’re a godsdamn asshole, Sandor Clegane.” Catelyn cuts eyes at her younger daughter but doesn’t reproach her language. Gendry puts his hand on Arya’s knee and she sniffles a bit before continuing. “I’m not going to pretend I get why Sansa put up with your shit for so long, but I don’t really need to. I get why she’s here now, supporting you, and maybe we aren’t going to be going on like, double dates or shit, but Gen and me, we’re okay. We forgive you, or whatever.” She mumbles that last sentence, but it’s sincere, and Gendry is nodding fervently beside her.

Bran speaks up next, his eyes now open and bright. “Ours is not to question what fate the gods have chosen for us. It’s not my place, nor anyone else’s, to grant absolution. You have always been welcome, and you will always be welcome, at my table.”

Sandor nods, as if he has any fucking idea what that means. Bran’s always been a bit weird, but he knows Sansa values her brother’s opinion, and in this instance at least, he is pretty sure that’s working out for him.

So far, the response is about what he’s expected, so Rickon’s outburst catches him by surprise.

“This is all bullshit, man.” Rickon explodes. His eyes are red and angry as he glares at Sandor. “You’re here saying all this garbage about how you’ve changed, but how do we know you aren’t going to just fuck up again, like you always do? Like you been doing? And what, now we all forgive you and start a fantasy baseball league like we’re bros?”

Sansa opens her mouth, but Sandor speaks up first. “I’m not going to sit here and say I won’t ever fuck up again, kid.” Rickon’s hands curl into fists at that, but Sandor’s too tired to care. He _is_ a kid, young enough that Sandor could be his father. “Fact is, I’ll probably fuck up a whole lot more. I’m just going to do it clean. Getting sober, that don’t change my faults. I’m still me, with all my issues, only now I gotta deal with them instead of shoving them down under the cork.”

Rickon’s jaw is set, his mouth curled down and Sandor doesn’t know if he’s getting through, but he’s not done trying.

“I’m not sitting here asking you to ignore the past, man. This isn’t about sweeping my shit under the rug and pretending we can’t see the hill it’s making in the fabric. It’s about moving forward, and if you don’t want to be buddies, that’s cool, man. We’re all adults here.” Even if some of them are more adult than others, he thinks.

Rickon’s shoulders slump. “Yeah well, being an adult sucks.” He mutters. Sandor shrugs, that won’t get an argument from him.

Ned reaches over to Rickon and pulls him in for a one-armed hug, which Rickon tolerates briefly before pulling away to wipe his nose on his shirt.

Eddard Stark, Ned to his friends and family. If Sandor’s being honest, what Ned’s going to say matters to him the most of all. Ned’s never really warmed up to Sandor, their eight year age difference half that of his and Sansa. He doesn’t blame Ned, it can’t be easy when your baby grows up and dates a man closer in age to her father than herself.

Ned doesn’t say anything, just walks over to Sandor and sticks his hand out. Sandor takes hold of it slowly, confused. Ned’s grip is firm and dry, and he pumps Sandor’s arm once, twice, nods at him, and lets go.

“My father always said you could tell everything you need to know about a man from the way he shakes hands.” Ned said thoughtfully. “That’s probably the first honest handshake I’ve had from you in four years.”

That leaves only Catelyn and Robb. Robb is his father’s son through and through, and he too walks over to shake Sandor’s hand. He leans in, though, on the side away from Sansa, and whispers into Sandor’s ear. “This is your one chance, Clegane. You fuck this up and they won’t find enough bits to identify your remains.”

His voice is gritty and rough and holds no dishonesty. Sandor nods tersely at him. Sansa looks questioningly at him as the handshake breaks, and he shakes his head. He’ll not lie to her, but there are some things she doesn’t need to be told, and her brother threatening to kill him falls deeply into the category.

Catelyn sits, arms around her elbows like she is holding herself together. Sandor feels Sansa holding her breath next to him. Her mother is not one to hide when she does not approve of something, and Catelyn Stark does not approve of most things when it comes to Sansa’s relationship with Sandor.

“Sansa -” Catelyn’s voice is tired. Sansa interrupts her before she can continue, her voice just as tired and broken.

“I know what you’re going to ask, and yes. Yes mum, I’m happy and I’m so proud of him, and just…please don’t make me choose.” Her eyes are shining as she looks at Sandor, squeezing his hand. He squeezes back.

Catelyn sighs, and Sandor hears 30 years of parental worry in her sigh. “Oh my sweet girl, you have to know I would never ask you to choose. Not ever.” Not like she’d had to do, Sandor knows she is thinking. She’d taken a step down in society when she chose to marry Ned, and her father hadn’t spoken to her for years, not until Bran’s birth, when Catelyn and Bran had both almost died.

Catelyn speaks directly to Sandor now. “I appreciate your honesty, Clegane.” And there it is, that feeling like Sandor has been called into the principal’s office, the way Catelyn can always make him feel like he’s been a naughty schoolboy. “And I commend you for your efforts in fixing yourself.” She purses her lips. “I don’t think I have to tell you that if you hurt Sansa in any way, if you _fuck this up_ ,” She whispers the curse word, “I will hang you from the tallest tree I can find.”

Arya laughs, a short alarm of a cackle. Catelyn allows herself a small smile, but there is no mirth in it.

Sandor had been expecting the shovel talk from Robb, and maybe Arya, but he’s a little bit surprised at receiving it from Catelyn, so prim and proper. Frankly, that makes it all the more terrifying, he thinks.

It’s over, then. He doesn’t feel any lighter, but the vise around his heart does loosen slightly as he leans into Sansa, who strokes his hair gently and murmurs again, for his ears only, how proud she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/

**Author's Note:**

> If you or someone you know is struggling with the disease that is alcoholism, you don't have to struggle alone.  
> http://www.aa.org/  
> http://www.al-anon.org/  
> https://www.intherooms.com/


End file.
